Incident at Oldenburg

 

Excerpt from " A Prentice Logbook"

 

By Bill Wilkinson

 

It all started when I could at last afford to upgrade my war-surplus four channel VHF radio for something more modern. I had installed a Narco Mk 12 360 channel transceiver complete with VOR. It was a necessity rather than a luxury. Traveling across Europe without proper means of communication was frowned upon by every country. Four channels were not enough. So it was with supreme confidence that I took off during the summer of 1964 to fly my wife and small boy up to Stockholm to visit the Swedish rellies. With fuel at less than 30 cents a gallon this was the cheapest form of travel.

 

We even claimed the duty back every time we flew from one country to another.

 

The take off from Biggin Hill was uneventful, the sun was shining and we settled down to a cruising speed of 100 knots. An hour later we had crossed the Channel and landed at Ostend. Paper work was cleared, our passports stamped and we were off to Groningen in North Holland. Groningen is a large airfield used, mostly, for training KLM pilots and we parked at the light aviation terminal in front of the restaurant. We were becoming well known at Groningen being frequent visitors on our way to Sweden. It is the ideal halfway post to Stockholm. Fuel loaded, flight plan filed, landing fees paid (three pounds), passports stamped and we were away again. Flying via Copenhagen it was a pleasant four-hour journey to Stockholm. The light aircraft airport there is Bromma on the Northwestern fringe of the city.

 

As we taxied into the terminal apron we could see the in-laws and the battered VW waiting for us. There were the usual emotional greetings. I was lucky to have a very agreeable mother and father in law. My father-in-law was a former merchant ship's captain and had three ships sunk from under him during the war. On one occasion he had swum for his life at wintertime in the Baltic. His health had suffered as a consequence. He did not worry about his daughter being flown around Europe by a mad kiwi pilot.

 

My mother-in-law was running a restaurant and had access to the very best of foods in Sweden. After two weeks of being thoroughly spoiled it was time to return to the U.K. The take-off from Bromma was in good VFR conditions. Cu-nim activity was forecast for the south of Sweden. Sure enough, just north of Karlskrona there was a solid wall of towering cumulus. Lightning was dancing around the black base clouds. Being a natural coward and not wanting to have my new radio fried I turned east over the Baltic. I doglegged around the nasty bits of activity. I made contact with the area controller at Malmo and he sounded rather agitated, wanting to know my precise position. He was also carrying on a conversation in Swedish, which was in the vernacular with other pilots in the area.

 

A sudden roar made me jump. A jet fighter passed my wing tip, missing me by about 10 to 20 metres. I recognized the jet as a SAAB J-29, also known as the "Flying Barrel".

 

I had barely gotten over the shock of the near collision when a second J-29 hurtled past, equally as close.

 

When I reported these facts to the Malmo Area Controller., he said that on radar it looked like I was coming from the East, meaning Russia. They were nervous about aircraft coming from that direction across the Baltic.

 

Over Malmo I set course for Hamburg. After four and a half hours flying from Stockholm I landed at Hamburg Airport.

 

At the Flight Clearances office my papers were processed by an elderly thin German with fair, graying hair who suffered from total humour deficiency. He was the unfriendliest person I had met in a long time and was most insistent on my producing my Insurance papers. In my Flight case I had maps, Customs papers, fuel dockets, flight plans, Journey Log books. Licenses, everything but the Insurance papers. He was getting nasty about it so I emptied the contents of the bag onto his desk. There was a lot of mumbling in German, "Schmertzig Englander." was quite audible. I found the missing Insurance paper.

 

He turned and attended to another pilot. It crossed my mind to ask him which Gestapo finishing school had he attended. I paid my Landing Fees, filed my flight plan, signed for my fuel, he stamped my NZ passport.

 

It was now late in the afternoon, I took off and set course on a westerly heading for Groningen.

 

What I did not know was that my new radio had completely changed the magnetic configuration of the aircraft. On westerly headings it flew in a southwesterly direction.

 

After about twenty minutes I became puzzled as to why I was not picking up the VOR for Groningen. The frequency needed to be checked urgently. I dug out the AirRad guide from my Flight bag and had my head down as I thumbed through the book.

 

A slight movement caught the corner of my eye out to my left. I looked up. On my left wingtip was a Luftwaffe Starfighter, his undercarriage and flaps were down, he was throttled right back to fly at my speed. The pilot, a mere twenty metres away were looking at me, clearly noting my registration.

 

As I watched, the fighter suddenly surged forwards, the undercarriage came up, the flaps retracted and the engines went into reheat. He swerved in front of me. I knew from my Air Force days that the jet blast from his engines was going to be disastrous for me and pulled the control column hard back to stay well clear.

 

I was completely bewildered by the total unfriendly attitude of the" krauts."

 

I looked down and saw a half dozen Starfighters stream landing at an enormous Airbase. There were another twenty or thirty parked on the apron.

 

This was Oldenburg, one of the most important Nato bases in Western Europe. The biggest no no in European flying. Silly me. In retrospect, I suppose I could have been shot down.

 

I knew that my navigation was way out. The sun was getting low in the sky. If I flew in that direction I couldn't go wrong. I picked up the Groningen VOR and was soon overhead the airfield. I spoke to my friends in the control tower, gave my position report and set course for a channel crossing.

 

Later in the evening I landed back at Biggin Hill.

 

The following months were extremely busy. Our London premises were sold and we shifted house and home to Jersey in the Channel Islands. I set up a dental surgery in King Street in St.Helier.

 

A couple of months after getting established a buff envelope with OHMS written on it arrived at the surgery. It was a letter from the Civil Aviation Administration asking for the name and address of the pilot of G-AOKF who flew over the Oldenburg Airbase.

 

I replied, admitting that I was the guilty party.

A few days later the phone rang and a voice asked if I would be available that afternoon, as the London Airport Police would like to interview me. I said that I had a full list of patients, should I cancel them? Yes, was the answer.

 

Later that day two middle-aged men knocked on the waiting room door.

 

"I am Detective Sergeant Cameron and this Detective Sergeant McIntyre, we are from the London Airport Police. Are you William Wilkinson?"

 

"Yes." I said.

 

"Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you."

 

I said, "I understand". Phil Sturgess, a prominent Jersey businessman, arrived. He was to be my witness to ensure that the police officers did not do anything underhand.

 

"You flew through the Oldenburg Control Zone without clearance. " I nodded.

 

The Police spokesman took out a very large book from his briefcase. He dropped it with a loud bang on my desk "This was contrary to the Air Navigation Act of 1957." He tapped the book.

 

Looking puzzled, I asked, "You know where you are now?" It was the turn for the policemen to be puzzled, "What do you mean?" he asked.

 

"We are in Jersey and Jersey Law applies." I opened a drawer and took out a folded piece of paper. "This is the Air Navigation Act of Jersey 1947 and this is the law here." It was my turn to tap the piece of paper

 

The policemen got up and mumbled that they would be back.

 

I heard later that they went straight around to the Attorney General's office in the States of Jersey (the Parliament of Jersey) and were laughed out of the office.

 

Jersey Law originates from the time of William the Conqueror and has not quite kept up to date.

 

One of my pals at the Jersey Airport rang me later and said that the policemen were seen boarding the London bound plane clutching their duty-free booze.

 

The case was obviously dropped. I never heard from them again.